The Best-Made Equipment
by flotsam-junk
Summary: After the sewers, there's the stench - the stench, the darkness, and the echoes of memories remaining still half-buried in Q's mind. Q's life is a series of tunnels, and lately he's taking one wrong turn after another. But at the end of every passage, there's something - or rather, someone - pulling him out. Follow-up to Continental Breakfast, but can be read on its own.
A/N: Remember that follow-up to Continental Breakfast I said I was going to do? Yeah well here it is 8 MONTHS later. Y'all could've had a baby in that time. It'd probably help to read Continental Breakfast first, as it does drop a few references to it - but you could probably make do without, too. This is a lot longer than anything I've ever written (One-Shot Overlord speaking), and I had to take more time in composing it (meaning no midnight shit-writing sessions) so if you like this - comments really mean a lot to me. Thanks. ~xoxo

Memory came in strikes of lightning.

Bright flashes of bloody imagery, mottled bruises in clouds of grey, echoes of injuries bouncing off a swollen ribcage…..

James sat upright in bed, his legs stretched out before him, one hand idly flipping through a rumpled computer manual he found in the bedside table. The diagrams and reference pictures meant nothing to him, his eyes scanning the explanations lazily and with disinterest.

His other hand sat atop Q's head, which was currently resting in James' lap. The rest of his body, curled into itself, was utterly still, punctuated only by the rise and fall of the comforter covering him.

In the corner of the room sat Q's table of trinkets: half-assembled computer monitors, exposed soundboards, hard drives of every imaginable size, and something large, wooden, and covered in light bulbs blinking mysteriously from the massive power strip holding everything together.

Somewhere from beyond the room, a clock chimed. James flipped a page. It had been a hard-won peace that night.

* * *

Sunlight broke through the surface of the vacant street, populated now with a myriad of ambulances, police vehicles, and unmarked black Sedans. Caution tape lined the entire block, yet it was not toward the conglomerate of medical vehicles that Bond and his charge headed. The pomp and circumstance of local government attention was left to the sly and clever smooth-talkers of MI6's PR – a ruse to distract the public eye from the lone agent sneaking up from a storm drain with a body draped over his shoulders.

Once surfaced, Bond transferred the unconscious Q back to his arms, allowing him more control to hand him off to the unmarked SUV waiting at the end of the block. A strange ripple shot through his stomach as he relinquished Q to the authorities, who placed him on a stretcher and immediately began checking his vitals.

Hanson, the muscular redhead who commanded the emergency response team, bristled up to Bond with an entire encyclopedia of unasked questions dancing on the tip of her tongue. Though blunt and prying, Hanson was an accomplished and loyal paramedic, which earned her an instinctual trustworthiness.

"Preliminary report?"

"Unconscious. He's been drifting in and out since I found him about 45 minutes ago. While awake, he was alert and responding to questions, but needed provocation to stay that way. He's been roughed up and heavily drugged, rather poorly if I may add." Bond reported.

"No shit. Kid looks like he's been through a meat grinder" Hanson replied. "Surface wounds?"

"Stab wound above the knee. Contusions covering most of his upper body. Eyes appeared healthy, though influenced by some kind of sedative cocktail."

Hanson nodded, blinking as though logging away every word and syllable coming out of Bond's mouth. "You said he was drifting, but he's out pretty cold right now. How long?"

"About 20 minutes. He was upright and walking, but a scrapper ambushed us and Q was forced to engage. That took the rest out of him" Bond said, his voice steady but his eyes distant. Hanson followed his line of sight to the stretcher, stark against the sunlit street, but hidden amongst the large SUV and trees. Her scrutiny softened. "You can go to him, agent. Lord only knows he could use a friendly set of eyes in case he comes round before we load him in."

She patted his arm and marched away, pressing her earpiece and giving a rapid rundown to HQ. As her voice trailed off, Bond crept near the fray, where a small team of EMTs attached oxygen, arranged IVs, and scrawled down notes concerning the pale and ghostly Quartermaster before them. Bond took the spot of an EMT who ducked off to the car to change out his stethoscope, filling in the gap but feeling incredibly isolated. His line of work left corpses, yet this mission required retrieving a body that was very much alive. He chucked daggers, grenades, and (as he was consistently reminded) very expensive weaponry at living, breathing bodies unnaturally often, rarely needing to think about recovering what was left behind. Yet here was Q, still whole, still breathing, but barely so – and Bond felt a swell in his gut at the thought that all the violence he was capable of was not enough to enact justice.

Unthinkingly, Bond reached out for Q's arm, curling around his wrist and watching the IV bag sway. Through the oxygen mask he could just barely make out his own distorted reflection, as some piece of machinery beeped from within the trunk of the car. For a moment, he just stared.

Then, sensing finality amongst the workers, Bond stepped off to the street, watching the stretcher get loaded into the secret ambulance. He heard an inquiry being made about "checking over the double-O" and knew that was his cue to deck out. As he skirted past trees and wild foliage, he gritted his teeth forcefully, biting back the growing urge to hurl himself down below and bury those gunmen with the rest of London's waste.

* * *

Bond had never necessitated sentimentality for sunlight, but he found himself missing the ray-soaked halls of the original MI6 as he prowled – truly – the dark tunnels of their new underground headquarters.

Chatter echoed eerily up each passageway as cold stone rose up to greet him around every corner, but the only noise he slowed for was the clacking of heels on tile, the familiar rhythm and cadence reaching his ears before the voice they belonged to ever did.

"Moneypenny" he said smoothly, giving her a respectable nod. "Bond" she responded, identically. From seemingly nowhere, she extracted a manila envelope stuffed with documents, and began rifling through them with authoritative purpose. "M wants to see you – something about the Manchester debriefing that he says "requires further clarifying analysis." Nothing urgent, but wise to be prompt nonetheless – you know how M is."

"Yes" Bond replied, watching her intently. Moneypenny finally found her target document, pulling out a stapled packet filled with diagrams and rudimentary blueprints. "Weapons diagnostics" she explained. "Mind handling some precious cargo for a special delivery downstairs?" she said slyly, and Bond hesitated, amused.

"And tell me, where does 'courier' fit into the job description?" he said, pulling the papers from her hand.

Moneypenny's smile widened. "Always acting in the stead of others, right?"

Bond gave a silent huff of laughter, and continued on his way – only to find Moneypenny trailing alongside him. He side-eyed her, which went completely ignored as she easily met is wide stride and stared straight ahead.

"How is he?" she asked, her voice low but matter-of-fact.

Bond didn't answer right away.

"He is doing about as well as one who is haunted by memories he doesn't know he has could be doing."

"He's still staying with you?"

Bond cocked an eyebrow. "Naturally."

"Good." Moneypenny stopped and turned fully to face Bond. Her voice was quieter, still. "And how are you?"

Bond faced her, his face void of any tangible expression. "I am fine."

Moneypenny grinned and shook her head. "Robots and toaster ovens and internal operating systems are fine, Bond. How are you, actually?"

Bond shifted his weight. He blinked once, then again. Finally, his eyes met Moneypenny's with the same passive expression.

"Angry."

* * *

To say Q was staying with James was misleading, seeing as James' flat could house a human about as efficiently as the waiting room of a doctor's office. Rather, Q's flat steadily acquired more and more objects used primarily by James: a toothbrush, a sock drawer, an outrageously expensive bottle of cologne shelved messily in-between Q's contact solution and toothpaste, and a sliver of closet reserved for suits and turtlenecks in soft, muted colors.

It took nothing short of teeth-pulling to get Q to honor his mandatory sick leave directly after the sewers. M understood the delicate balance of needing distraction versus needing recuperation, but was not willing to sacrifice the quality of the former because the latter was not being met.

So, Q worked four days a week – down his usual eight – and remained on call the other three. "Get him outside" M had told James as soon as Q had been released from medical. "Don't let him remain indoors to fester in bad memories." James privately agreed.

As it turned out, Q didn't do either. He didn't venture beyond the radius of his flat, but certainly didn't spend his days wallowing inside. Behind his deadbolted door (enhanced with microcameras that supplied a feed directly into Q's wristwatch), Q worked tirelessly on projects, most of which James couldn't even begin to understand – fusing bolts and boxes and poring over gears of every imaginable size, all while talking feverishly into a headset as the designated (and ever-patient) R manned the controls on Q's off days. For the most part, James left him to it, occasionally watching (silently, but always alerting of his presence) from various corners of the flat.

Q's steadfast pace began to betray him as he worked well into the nights, turning on every light in the house and speaking less and less as evening wore on. James missed the first of these occasions, as duty kept him away at odd hours, but encountered a bedraggled Q just days after his release from medical, trying to solder a laser pointer to a pair of sunglasses for no discernible reason.

James – still keeping a professional distance by staying on the couch – had approached audibly, but softly. "I don't doubt the pressing need for flashy eyewear, though I question its use during moonlit hours."

Q set down the hand drill he had been using. "Hyper-photosensitivity will be the next pandemic. When the cyborgs attack, the state of everyone's retinas will be owed to me."

That drew a humorous scoff out of James, who watched for a brief moment before retreating back to the living room. Through the curtained window, the flash of headlights belonging to a street-racer roared past, and Q stopped for a quick moment to watch, alert.

When James awoke the next morning, it was to find Q slumped over his work station, breathing deeply and fitfully. James draped a quilt over his shoulders and gave him one hour before shaking him awake.

"Any more nights like that and you'll be working on a back brace next."

Q yawned, heavily rubbing his hands over his face. "The only thing I have to worry about breaking my back, is you."

The corner of James's mouth quirked upwards as he took a step back, allowing Q to rise from his chair. James expected Q to head towards his bedroom, but found him unexpectedly folding the blanket up and moving towards the kitchen instead.

James leaned against the doorframe, turning the strange glass-and-laser mechanism in his hands, staring intently at Q as he fixed a cup of tea.

"I can feel your eyes bearing holes into my skin. I've lots of new experience in that, did you know?" Q chided, his back facing James as he worked the kettle.

It was the closest thing to "talking about it" Q had come to since James had recovered him weeks ago, but James wasn't about to tug that fragile filament of conversation. "Consider it practice for your first prototype" he said instead, and Q turned to face him, mug in hand.

"Don't be daft. I know first-handedly that you would never use equipment unless you planned to dispose of it yourself, in which case it must meet the expectations of being practical, helpful, and ludicrously expensive to manufacture."

"Resourcefulness, a survivor does make" James chanted.

"Wastefulness, a double-O does ensure" Q chanted back, blowing over the top of his steaming mug.

James removed himself from the doorframe and strolled up to Q, placing the modified sunglasses over his chunky black spectacles. Q stared pointedly at his face, then, steadily but quietly, spoke. "There is a delicate line between something that is resourceful and something that is useless."

James moved closer to Q, leaving inches between them. He lifted the glasses and placed them on top of Q's head. "Even the best-made equipment cannot contend with circumstances it wasn't built for."

Q sighed and lowered his head, resting it against James's chest. James's hand instinctively circled round, burying itself in the depths of inky-black hair. They remained like that for just a moment, before Q sniffed, sipped his tea, and headed back towards his workspace.

James watched him go. The dark purple circles introducing the start of sleep deprivation had not gone unnoticed. But it was still early. They had time.

* * *

It was as though Q had never been gone. Almost suspiciously so, Moneypenny had joked two days after Q returned to work. Q worked with the fervor of his pre-abducted self, his fearlessness on headset never wavering and the intensity for his construction never faltering. Even M had observed impressively, though it was Bond who first noticed how quickly Q would shrug off any physical contact to his back. Understandable, Moneypenny had said. Only to be expected, M had offered. Just the start, something in Bond's gut had countered.

And from there, Q began to show his splinters.

It began with the washroom. Q's visits were infrequent and rapid, and where he'd once take the time to readjust his glasses or splash water on his tired face, he now flew across linoleum. Bond even once observed him turn on the balls of his feet while en-route when told that the pipes had backed up and the washroom was unavailable at the moment.

It escalated with stress. As the usual toil of a job at MI6 began to redisperse itself into Q's life, Bond noticed that Q at rest seemed far twitchier than Q on the move. At meetings, at lunch, while poring over manuals and blueprints, Q's hands were constantly rubbing his neck, smoothing over his knees, or rubbing the sides of his arms. When he brought it to Moneypenny's attention, she boldly tried initiating, setting an affectionate hand upon Q's right knee – hiding her acknowledgment at the way Q instantly tensed and set his jaw.

It peaked over headset. Q had been back at the helm for nearly two weeks, and was in the throes of directing 003 through a system of subway tunnels with the sounds of pursuit hot on his trail.

"Take a left, 003. You'll find a keypad-activated door – I've unlocked it."

003 took the direction at once. "There are stairs leading down – where do they go, Q?"

Q paused. "Stairs?"

"That's right" he responded, as the sounds of pattering feet reverberated off the stone walls.

Q's eyes flew to the monitor, swiftly scanning the route 003 had just taken.

"003….you DID take Maintenance Tunnel C2, correct?"

"C2….shit" 003 cursed, confirming what Q already knew.

Q groaned into his headpiece. "D2 leads you three stories underground. It's not part of the subway anymore. You've led yourself straight into-"

"-the sewers" 003 finished for him.

"That's right" Q huffed out, willing his heart rate to calm the few paces it had spiked.

"The stench in here is bloody rank" 003 grumbled, and Q's fists clenched together, leaving deep fingernail grooves in his palms.

The sounds of pursuit in his ear grew stronger and stronger, leading him to another uncomfortable truth. "They'll be catching up to you shortly, 003. Your pin grenade will be a viable distraction. Hang a right and ambush them in the alcove. I'll have R ring for backup" he instructed, motioning to R a few paces away.

At that moment, 003's pursuers burst into the vicinity, and the sounds of combat bounced in and out of Q's ears. Heavy thuds echoed off of the cavernous walls, accompanied by static vocalizations of force. Q forced himself to stare rigidly at the monitor, counted paces in his head, urged himself to map out the entire subway system 003 was supposed to have gone down…but found the edges of his vision darkening instead as his pulse slammed in his throat.

"Q?" a voice – R's maybe, or 003's – called out, but it was farther away than it should have been and Q wondered why she had moved out of the room when they were hands-deep in a mission.

A large and heavy thud echoed straight through Q's earbuds, ricocheting off his eyelids and forcing them to close from the impact. Those familiar green tunnels were closer than they'd been in weeks, and Q could feel the impact of chilly stone on his injured knee.

His hand snapped instinctively to his ribs, protecting his lungs from any further bruising, already hurting from the amount of dust in the air, but a calloused hand wrenched it off and held it behind his back. The sound of a distant scream travelling down those stench-marked halls tore through his ears. His knees hit the floor with a crack, while his hands flew to the bud in his ear, still projecting the sounds of a scuffle, but needing to be protected at all costs.

Hands groped at his shoulders, and Q tensed every muscle in his body. He would be moved if they wished it, as he had been for days now, but if he was to go, he would go like the stone beneath him: rough and impenetrable. He could hear his name chasing away the sounds of combat in his ear, but whether it was to get his attention or demand an alias, he couldn't decipher. He willed himself to breathe through his nose, the festering scent of waste lingering in his nostrils, but telling him yes, he was alive, he was still here, he was breathing.

Suddenly a different set of hands met his face, and the force of them snapped Q's attention back to his immediate vicinity. His name shot through his ears again, much stronger than before, and his brain finally registered the tone as urgent. Dread now laced with curiosity, he wrenched his eyes open, and was met with such a blinding spell of blue and white, he nearly shut them again.

The face before him was not the gruff mug of a captor, but the sharp jawline of 007, who was – curiously – positioned at the same height as Q's work desk. Q stared incredulously. The sounds of bodies being thrown like Frisbees began to ebb away. The smell of black water dissipated entirely. Q gave a hard blink, then licked his lips and flicked his eyes around the room.

Bond was directly in front of him, hands gripping Q's skull, both of them kneeling on the tiled floor directly below the overhead monitor. M stood to the left, his normally-passive face etched with concern, while R paced the right, her hand clutching Q's earbud tightly. The rest of the room was void of people, the lights bright against their stony backdrop.

Q spoke first, his voice shaking so fiercely he was forced to swallow just to get his throat working again. "Th…the tun…" he started. "I th…thought it…wh-what?" he tried a second time.

Bond's face, still blessedly neutral, tilted a fraction. "You are in MI6. You were guiding 003 through a mission." Bond's hands moved to Q's shoulders, attempting to stabilize the tremors coursing through his body.

M stepped in. "It was a panic attack, Q, likely triggered from the sounds of 003 traveling through the sewers."

Q's head snapped towards M. "003. I didn't…is he - ?"

"He is fine. Once R realized you were incapacitated, she guided backup safely to him. They are all en-route to their designated safehouse as we speak. She also removed your earpiece" M added.

"Sensory over-stimulation" R said apologetically, holding out Q's earpiece to him.

Q accepted it slowly, hands curling around the familiar bud from under Bond's vicegrip. He took a shaky breath in, then huffed it out, the air quavering as it left his lungs. "I…I'm sorry. I…didn't realize I'd been…compromised" he breathed out, the phrase "compromised quartermasters"twirling playfully through his head. He made to stand, and Bond released his hold, standing aside so he could rise. He remained just within arm's length of Q as Q turned to face M.

"My deepest apologies, M. I have never – "

"Nor should anyone ever have to, Q. I'm sorry that today, you had to face it again."

Q blinked, taken aback. "With our mission objective reached and all units safe, I do believe home is in order" M continued. "I will see you in two days, Q." And with that, M made to turn out of the room, R following after a half-second of hesitation.

Q stood next to Bond in the now-empty control room, feeling raw and exposed like a wire ripping through electrical tape. He clasped his arms over his chest, rubbing his sleeves and staring as steadily as he could at his winking computer monitor. Bond placed a steady hand right in-between his shoulder blades, thumb stroking gently.

Q basked in the silence, feeling the air move consistently in and out of his lungs. What would have been worse – being chastised, or the overwhelming sense of pity still blanketing the air? Q shuddered, causing Bond's grip to tighten, and Q leaned in to the touch for a brief moment before heading for the exit.

* * *

The silence of night did not hold the same comforts as the silence of day.

Q's face, though free of actual bruises for weeks now, was mottled with blue and gray. His eyelids were decorated with veins like peppermint candies, and his posture was marred by a distinctive drag.

James observed him from the couch (no longer his sleeping quarters, which had silently changed a week into their bizarre arrangement). Q was currently seated at the dining table, held up by invisible strings, his arm slopped limply over a notebook covered in scrawlings. He stared into nothing, pen still propped up in-between his fingers.

Rising, James made his way over to the table, hand dipping into his pocket as he moved. He deposited a small orange prescription bottle right next to Q's pencil-clutched hand. Q started, then blinked warily.

"What's this?"

"Call it an experiment in diurnal arrangements."

Q picked up the bottle, spinning it idly in his fingers. "Funny. Normal people call them sleeping tablets."

"So you acknowledge normal people sleep" James replied pointedly, taking a seat directly across from him.

Q hummed in agreement. He held the bottle up to the light, reflecting orange fractals onto the table, and James waited patiently through the heady silence, before breaking it with "Has Hanson offered you these yet?"

"Many, many times."

James stared expectantly.

Q lowered the bottle and sighed. "There are risks, you know. Long-term side effects that could alter my very pleasant and agreeable demeanor."

James raised his eyebrows. "Long-term side-effects of constant sleep deprivation are death. What would that do for your demeanor?"

"Currently, improve it" Q sighed, ramming his knuckles into his temples. He lowered his hands, glasses balled in his fists, and found they met the warmth of James's palms before they hit the cool table. James clasped his fingers around Q's, the slightest of pleas cracking through the ice in his eyes, and Q relented. He rose from his chair, grabbed the bottle valiantly, and downed two small, white tablets dry. Without uttering a single word, he shuffled off to the bedroom, dramatically resigning to his fate of sleeping and leaving James to follow in his wake.

Q slumped, fully clothed, onto the bed, as James climbed gracefully onto the other side, dimming the lamp and opening up an ancient science-fiction novel from decades ago that he found in the back of the nightstand one evening. The half-torn cover depicted a slimy reptile man in close combat with a square, chrome robot, as fire engulfed the landscape. James found it almost as engaging as the weekly lunch menu.

The minutes ticked by, various electronics whizzing and bopping in the corner of the room. James flipped lazily through his book while Q lay on his stomach, open eyes reflecting the dim flicker of light on the bedside table. Nearly half an hour passed before he moved again, his hand creeping towards James's leg.

"It's not falling asleep that's troubling" he said, voice muffled.

James closed the book and looked to Q's glassy, distracted gaze.

"It's not being able to rouse myself if I need to."

James placed the book on the nightstand and sunk into the bed, leveling his gaze with Q's. "Tonight, I will be the voice in your ear."

Q gave an odd, lopsided smile, tracing his fingers over James' and finally allowing his eyes to slide shut. A deep sigh led him into slumber.

But the silence of night did not hold the same comforts as the silence of day.

James woke suddenly. Quiet gripped the room, the lamp still dim and casting lopsided shadows that melted off the walls. He checked the clock, and realized he had nodded off for less than an hour. A discomforting reticence seeped through the room.

Q was still next to him, in the same position he fell asleep in, the main difference now being that his chest was heaving and his hands were balling up the blanket so tight, his knuckles were paling.

James placed a tentative hand on his back, testing his responsiveness, but was unsurprised to receive none in return. "Q" he tried, going through the mental checklist Hanson had given him for nights like this, and was met with the same result.

James waited for Q to shoot up, quick as lightning and ferocious as thunder, so he could subdue him more efficiently – but the moment never came, instead bypassing into a series of grotesque, writhing motions that shook the entire bed-frame.

Years of quick reflexes propelled James off the bed, where he instantly circled to Q's side. Despite the motion, Q's eyes were still closed, yet James could feel his breath puffing out in fits of hyperventilation.

Now alarmed, James grabbed Q's wrists in an attempt to still him, hoping to cause just enough pressure to rouse him from…whatever this was. It had the opposite effect, causing Q to twist his body in jagged, angular movements, knocking him off the bed and sending them both crashing to the floor.

"Q!" James tried again, forcefully this time, as Q's eyes finally shot open. Awake, but not present, Q gasped for air and struggled to escape from James's grasp, whose arms had tightened tenfold and were crossing Q's arms over his own chest. Unpleasantly positioned now, with his torso jabbing into James and his legs splayed out from under him, Q kicked the carpet and shot James's head straight into the nightstand. The lamp wobbled dangerously, then fell to the ground with a crash that pierced the night like a bolt of electricity, shattering into chunks.

Q's frantic breathing intensified, and James enveloped his entire frame, pulling him to the floor and pressing his head to the carpet.

With James's arms securing Q's torso underneath him, Q let out a desperate, panicked cry, and James pressed his forehead into Q's temple. Lips hovering directly over Q's ear, James gave one final attempt.

"Q, listen. Listen to me. I am not them. You are not there. Feel where you are, feel what is around you. Free from stone, free from steel, feel your lungs take in the clean air and understand you are not there. Breathe for me, Q. Beyond static and echoes there is a voice in your head, and it is begging you to breathe."

James inhaled fully and deeply, crushing Q to his chest as he did so – then released him in one solid motion, propelling Q forward and sending him sprawling on the carpet.

The moment was hot and thick on James's tongue as he waited.

Then, stillness spread over Q like snowfall. His arm twitched, then his fingers, and slowly, painstakingly slowly, Q's eyes opened, awareness dancing agilely in the newly-casted shadows of moonlight.

Q pulled his arms up under him and wrenched himself up, coughing and sputtering as he struggled to realign his breathing. James was there in an instant, slipping an arm under his shoulders and half-leading, half-carrying Q back to the bed.

Q collapsed, breathing so hard his shoulders were heaving, and grasped the blanket James put over his shoulders with nothing short of need. James climbed beside him for the second time that night, only this time there was no second thought as he wrenched Q up from the mattress and positioned him against his chest. Resting his chin atop Q's head, James struggled not to take heaving breaths himself.

"Breathe, Q. Take the air in."

As Q took one shaky gasp after another, James wrapped his fingers around the back of Q's neck, the very tips of them just close enough to the vein to feel the pulse throbbing in this throat. His thumb rubbed the nape of Q's neck, and gradually, the gasps deepened, and something like workable breathing took their place.

His pulse slowed. Tension left in waves. And it was a long, long time before either of them said anything.

"It's the smell" Q croaked out against James's chest, voice hoarse and cracking.

James turned his head inquisitively.

"I can't…forget the smell. It's pervaded every inch of me. It's followed me everywhere. In washrooms, it's the worst, and all I can see are dark tunnels."

Q gritted his teeth and exhaled sharply. "I can't…I couldn't…I could hear, but I couldn't _see_. I knew you were there, but all I could feel was pressure. It's the same, goddamn pressure that's pulling me into the waste where I should've…I might as well have – "

James smoothed his hands over Q's shoulders to cut him off. He spoke slowly. "You are not tethered to darkness. The images of memory hold no power over its keeper. Your anchor rests only where you cast it."

Q inhaled shakily. "Where does that put you?"

James ran his hand over Q's forehead, pushing his hair back. "I am the open sea."

Another long, palpable moment passed.

"I would say this study in diurnal arrangements was a scientific failure" Q said matter-of-factly, though the words were still dry in his throat.

"I blame improper use of chemical supplement." James responded.

Q shifted to an upright position on the edge of the bed, his shoulders heavy with an unseen weight. His head drooped as though being pulled down. "Further analysis deemed unnecessary. Include my serial number in the casualty report, will you?" he said foggily.

James perched beside him, his hand returning to the back of Q's neck –fingers cool like aloe against Q's feverish nape. "You are forgetting something, Quartermaster" he hummed, low and smooth.

Q raised his head fractionally.

"I haven't read through a report since M was at the beginning of the alphabet" James finished, running his other hand under Q's jaw and meeting their lips in a deep, chaste kiss.

The contact was magnetic, James's lips dry and warm as he broke away and repeated the motion, careful not to impose any force upon Q, but still engaging every fiber of himself into the movement. Q's hands balled against James's shirtsleeves, his breath hitching as James drew out the rank memory of filth with every pulsating kiss.

James broke away and held his forehead to Q's, hands strumming through his hair as Q's shoulders heaved with the efforts of keeping himself afloat – but not alone, this time.

His head fell against James's shoulder, taking breaths deep enough to fill the ocean and letting the lingering scent of James's absurdly expensive cologne fill his senses. James's hands rested weightily on Q's shoulder blades while musk and sandalwood and rich, smooth velvet whisked away the metallic jab of waste and sewage.

Gradually, Q let himself drift back down to the mattress, James sitting up against the headboard and guiding his head to rest against his thigh. James picked up the science fiction novel he had been barely interested in, tossed it off the side, and reached for a computer manual whose spine was just poking out from under the bed. Meanwhile, Q pulled his hands to his chest and let his mind drift in the newfound quiet of night.

It had been a hard-won peace. But through the slivers of dark green tunnels and rank echoic chambers, a hard-won peace tied itself to port and braced the choppiness of the open sea.


End file.
